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CHILDREN 
OF THE 

SUN 



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By WALLACE GOULD 



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ClassT^5r5_ 

Copyright^ 



CQEHHGHT DEPOSIT. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



Rhapsodies and Poems 



By WALLACE (JOUL1) 




THE CORNHILL COMPANY 
BOSTON 



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Copyright, 1917, by 
The Cornhill Company 



COPVSi^J^ OFFICE 



DEC 31 1917 



©CU5U1995 









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To Marsden Hartley 

Who, with me, has survived all the ninth waves and 
who will leave me only at some ebbing of tide which 
he shall choose or with which he shall naturally drift 
out, I present these children, for he is godfather. 

The mother of them is dead. My life with her was 
stormy, in general, as with all first passions; full of 
all the mad pleasures and madder sorrows that grand 
passions contain — and mine was a grand passion 
of the old school, not one of these safe and sane at- 
tachments, mostly in the head, that people have these 
days. There were giants in those days. 

Marsden always loved these children of mine. At 
times he pitied them. At times he reproved them, or 
me, for their sake. At times they bored him. At times 
he was impatient at their prattle. Yet he was 
always tolerant, for an obvious reason. But they 
are big children, now, finely developed, and I am 
coming to him, with my offspring stringing along 
behind, to remind him that he has a dread office to 
perform and to inform him that I am going to elope 
with another mistress. 



Note 

I shall write no preface, for understandings which 
are cultivated are as tiresome as misunderstandings. 
However, do not call the rhapsodies poems. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Legend ....... 1 

Ab Uno Disce Omnes . . . . .11 

Out of Season ...... 37 

Others, Nameless . . . . . .57 



THE LEGEND 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



THE LEGEND 

HE TOLD me all the legends of the place. 
Up there is the loveliest countryside in Maine, 
and, in the days when we first knew each other, 
we used to tramp out many miles a day, 
here and there 
to certain ponds 
or certain hills 

or taverns mentioned in his little tales. 
One day we started out to find a spot 
whose legend was the best of any, then, 
so he said. 
'Twas in June. 

Whistling, we walked away 

from Sanford, through the Spring vale countryside, 

where, at a butter-smelling door, we paused, 

when he inquired for a certain gorge 

within which, on a day — 

before the savages had disappeared 

into the white men's past — a savage perished. 

Instructed, we proceeded. 

On the road — 
a logging-road unused for decades, grassed 
and alder-bordered, with a bowldered bed — 
we passed a long deserted lumber-mill, 
a ruin black and warped, with wind-swung doors; 
a place where spiders wove their webs, to wait. 



2 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Beside the mill were weather-reddened mounds 

of sawdust, and the stream by which it stood 

flowed through the gorge we sought. 

Crossing a bridge, 

we turned upon another logging-road 

which broadened to a forest-coliseum 

in whose arena martyred sunbeams died, 

huddling in hundreds on a wondrous bier 

of high and horizontal- woven brakes — 

red lilies pluming it. 

We crept through brush 
and gloom-starved hemlock-branches, crossing trunks 

blown down in ancient storms. We heard the sound 
of forest-hidden waters — changeless, deep, 
even an organpoint to songs of birds 
and chatterings of squirrels and the cries 
of crows, antiphonal. 

At length we neared 
the stream. It glittered through big sapling-leaves 
below us, at the entrance to the gorge. 
There we descended, grasping happening roots 
within the leafmould, for the bank was steep 
and treacherous with loose or mossy stones. 
We suddenly burst forth upon the brink. 
The gorge was just beginning, we within. 
Beyond us, towering, a bowlder rose 
rounded and chaos-polished. By its side 
a glowering crag rose. Swift, between them, poured 
the stream, which curled and splashed and frothed and sprayed 
and shone, sounding and sounding. 

We remained 
at distance, where we were, for there were pools 
and sun-warmed rocks, flat, and we stripped and bathed 
and afterward, while sitting in the sun 
to dry, he told the legend of the gorge 
and while he spoke 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 3 

we gazed upon the pouring waters which twisted 

and streamed 

and shone 

and sparkled 

and frothed 

and sprayed 

and foamed 

and glistened — glistened — glistened — 

scuttling between the bowlder and the crag. 

He told me, while we dried, about Ogissin 

and Agomis 

and the trapper, the wabishkizze. 

Agomis lingered on the bowlder-summit round and chaos-pol- 
ished and facing the crag beyond the waters. 

Agomis looked below upon the pouring waters which curled 

and twisted 

and streamed 

and shone 

and sparkled 

and frothed 

and sprayed 

and glistened — glistened — glistened. 

Agomis downward looked and harkened long — long — long — 
long — 

to the sounds of the curling waters which muttered 

and hissed 

and rumbled 

and tinkled 

and gurgled 

and rang — rang — rang. 

Agomis downward looked and harkened. 

Agomis downward looked and harkened though on high an 
eagle swayed and swept — 

though within the gorge a deer emerged to drink, timid, paus- 
ing— 



4 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

though upon a blasted pine a crow was sitting, silent, watch- 
ing— 

though squirrels wriggled through the forest, chattering — 

though a deadened pine-branch snapped to startle, with echoes 
sharp, somewhere within the forest, catching, rattling, 
tearing, descending to bounce upon the ancient stretch of 
spills and pound as might the mallet of a medicine-man 
descend 

to bounce and pound upon a tam-tam 

at the spirit- voyage of a chieftain. 

Oh, the birds sang — sang — sang — 

and the snakes basked in the first of summer suns. 

And the deer upreared 

and leaped 

and fled 

and the crow forsook the blasted pine, with utterings. 

Yet Agomis downward looked and harkened long — long — 

long — long — 
to the sounds of the curling waters which muttered 
and hissed 
and rumbled 
and tinkled 
and gurgled 

and rang — rang — rang — 
for she heard the voices of lovers 

and the voices of dancing warriors, going to battle, returning, 
and the voices of warriors sitting at feasts 
and the voices of warriors speaking to warriors, proud, 
and the voices of women speaking to women, happy, 
and the voices of the tortured, hoarse, 
and always the voices of lovers, 
and Agomis sang. 

" Where is Ogissin? " sang Agomis. 

" Where is Ogissin whose arms are powerful? 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 5 

Where is Ogissin whose flesh is sweet to smell? 

Warm is the blanket of my wigwam 

but warmer is the blanket of Ogissin! 

Warm is the first of summer suns 

but warmer is the glance of Ogissin ! 

Warm is the fire by my door 

but warmer is the flesh of Ogissin ! 

Where is Ogissin whose flesh is sweet to smell? 

Where is Ogissin? " 

Then behind her crept the trapper, the wabishkizze, who laid 

his furs aside 
and put around her waist a lustful arm. 

And Agomis cried out, frightened. 

And Agomis made escape and hurried to Ogissin 

who wrapped her in his blanket with arms of power. 

Then upward to the first of summer moons Ogissin raised his 

arms of shadow-spreading muscles 
and uttered the song of them who hate. 
And with the coming of the second summer sun 
Ogissin hunted the trapper, the wabishkizze. 

And when the third of summer suns was seen 

Ogissin found a fox with silver fur — by moonlight trapped — 
and waited, silent, standing straight, behind a mighty trunk 
nearby, 

until the trapper came. 

Then Ogissin drew his knife. 

Then Ogissin crept. 

Then Ogissin sprang. 

Wary was the wabishkizze, the trapper, 

and he sprang aside 

and he raised his gun, 

but on a dead limb overgrown with grass, he caught his mocca- 
sin and reeled 

and fell. 



6 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Then Ogissin sprang. 

And the trapper, the wabishkizze, struggled with Ogissin. 

And Ogissin struggled with the power of his arms, 

but the trapper writhed in manners of other lands 

and loosened the hold of Ogissin 

and arose 

and fled. 

Then Ogissin sheathed his knife, outcrying, 

and followed the trapper 

and through the forest 

fled the trapper — 

toward the mighty bowlder round and chaos-polished and far 

away — 
onward he fled, 

slipping on spills which were matted by the decades, 
stumbling on trunks which had fallen in ancient storms, 
jumping from mossy stones to mossy stones, 
forcing his way through hemlock-branches which had been 

slowly starved by the gloom, 
hiding in hazel-clusters 
and pausing 
and peering 
and listening 
and hearing Ogissin 
and fleeing 
and pausing 
and turning 
and peering 
and seeing Ogissin 
and fleeing again. 
Ogissin followed, 
gaining upon the wabishkizze, 

striding over the spills which were matted by the decades, 
running on the trunks which had fallen in ancient storms, 
leaping from mossy stones to mossy stones, 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 7 

avoiding the hemlock-branches which had been slowly starved 

by the gloom, 
watching the hazel-chisters 
and gaining 

and hearing the sound of rushing waters 
and treading 
and sidling 
and peering. 

Breathless, the trapper neared the bowlder round and chaos- 
polished 
which faced the crag beyond the waters. 
He came before the bowlder. 

There the wabishkizze paused. He looked back. He lis- 
tened. There was no sound save that of the stream, which was 
louder than all other sounds. Cracklings of undergrowth or 
twigs were as whispers at a ghost-dance. Only a dead limb, 
sundered, could have been heard above the waters. The wab- 
ishkizze stared. He peered. Then he uttered a low groan, as 
might one who feels an old pain which he had thought would 
never come to him again. For he saw Ogissin within a cluster 
of sapling birches. He shuddered. He turned toward the gorge. 
There was the bowlder. There was the crag, beyond. The 
waters could only be heard. They were too far down to be 
seen. There was the mighty space between the bowlder and 
the crag. The wabishkizze knew that he must jump or die. 
He knew that he might have to jump to death. He thought. 
He would have rushed upon the bowlder to scan the mighty 
space. He would have crawled over the sides to the water. 
But even then Ogissin sprang from the birches 
and cried aloud 

and uttered the song of them who hate 
and drew his knife 
and rushed upon the wabishkizze 

and the wabishkizze was maddened with fright. The wabish- 
kizze braced his feet and ran, leaping, outcrying, upon the sum- 



8 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

mit of the bowlder, where, shuddering, he made a last leap, 

running, for the crag on the other side. He reached the crag 

and turned, bracing his feet. Ogissin followed, leaping. Yet 

Ogissin did not reach the crag. He sank before the crag. He 

could have clutched it. He could even then have killed the 

trapper. But the trapper, the wabishkizze, had pulled from the 

ground a stone as big as the head of a man. He raised it on 

high, in both hands, and hurled it at Ogissin. It struck Ogissin 

at the breast. 

It happened so. 

Ogissin fell 

and fell 

and fell 

and splashed 

and floated 

and floated 

and floated 

and sank 

and sank 

and sank 

and was seen no more. 

We dreamed for a while 

and listened to the curling waters which muttered 

and hissed 

and rumbled 

and tinkled 

and gurgled 

and rang — rang — rang, 

while they twisted 

and streamed 

and shone 

and sparkled 

and frothed 

and sprayed 

and foamed 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and glistened — glistened — glistened, 
scuttling between the bowlder and the crag. 

When we were dry 
we dressed ourselves. 

When we returned, we went another way 

and on that way we climbed an high, round hill 

whose summit had been cleared to pasture-lands 

and mammoth hay-fields. Having reached the heights 

we sprawled, looking below upon the towns 

whose spires, protruding from the virid stretch, 

seemed like as many old maids at croquet, 

and whose far-rolling columns of factory-smoke 

seemed dragons bent on conquest of the line 

of Appalachian courtiers in the west, 

who, conscious of their first right to the sun, 

lay in it, powdered, ermined, splendid, proud, 

impassable in frigid majesty — 

whose foothills, grim, seemed couchant hounds on guard. 

Eastward, a thousand hilltops faded out 

into a fumid haze which hid the sea 

at Kennebunkport, twenty miles away, 



AB UNO DISCE OMNES 



AB UNO DISCE OMNES 

THERE was a place inclosed with high, stone walls 
which were mossed and crumbling — 
a place which was accessible by oaken, iron-bound gates 
which were rotting 
and the gates were closed 
and locked 
and barred with bars of brass. 

There, alone, I came when the sun was high 

and paused where the mossed walls cast a shadow- — 

where a warm breeze wandered through a graceful vine. 

The shadow was narrow beside those walls. 

Along the road rushed a drouth-dried wind which was nervous 

with the weariness of summer's older days 
and the wind whirled, rushing, and raised up dust in wreaths 

which flourished 
and glistened 
and broke 

and sprawled upon me 
to be hot 

and to torture me. 

Oh, the shadow was narrow beside those walls ! 
There came no sound from behind those walls. 
No being followed along the road. 
Oh, I was weary 
and famished 
and sick 
and maddened 

and I crawled to a gate of iron-bound oak 
and I lowly knocked 
and I waited 



14 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and I knocked 

and I listened — 

but there came no answer. 

There came no sound from behind those walls ! 

Oh, I was weary 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened 

and the drouth-dried wind rushed along the road 

and the warm breeze wandered through the graceful vine. 

The shadow grew wider beside those walls 

yet no being followed along the road. 

Along the road swept wreaths of dust — 

when I louder knocked upon that gate of iron-bound oak, 

for I was weary 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened. 

Oh, I knocked 

and I murmured — 

" Allow me within! 

Allow me within! " 

and I waited 

and I listened — 

yet there came no answer. 

There came no sound from behind those walls 

and I was weary 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened! 

There came a western sun 

and an eastern moon 

while I lingered, alone, before that gate of iron-bound oak which 

was closed 
and locked 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 15 

and barred with bars of brass — 

and the warm breeze wandered through the graceful vine. 

Oh, I was weary 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened! 

Then I loudly knocked 

and I kneeled 

and I pleaded — 

" Allow me within! 

Allow me within! " 

when I waited, 

when I listened — 

when there came no answer. 

There came no sound from behind those walls 

and the warm breeze wandered through the graceful vine. 

Oh, the moon shone 

and the stars shone 

and there came upon the drouth-dried wind a resonance which 

made me shudder — 
a resonance which soon became a noise 
following the drouth-dried wind — 
voices as of a bestial mob, 
music as of a bacchanal, 
nearing, following the road. 
Shrieks I heard 
and laughter 
and screams 
and shouts 
and songs 
with drums 
and horns 
and tambourines 
and I waited 
and I listened 
and I looked 



16 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and I soon beheld a lambent smear of far illumination on a far, 

drawn veil of vapor — 
mighty as above a mighty city which is consumed by flames — 
and wavering and wide — 
wavering and wider — 
near and nearer. 
Shrieks I heard 
and laughter 
and screams 
and shouts 
and songs 
with drums 
and horns 
and tambourines 

and I pounded upon that gate of iron-bound oak 
and I shuddered 
and I cried — 
" Allow me within! 
Allow me within! " 
and I waited 
and I listened — 
and there came no answer. 
I heard no sounds save shrieks 
and laughter 
and screams 
and shouts 
and songs 
with drums 
and horns 
and tambourines. 

Then I turned 

and I looked 

and I beheld an approaching mob 

with a thousand flambeaux which flared and smoked — 

an approaching mob with drums 

and horns 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 17 

and tambourines. 

Broadcast and blinding became the flare of the flambeaux. 

Louder became the shrieks 

and laughter 

and screams 

and shouts 

and songs — 

louder and hoarse, 

louder and vicious. 

Louder and frantic became the pounding of monstrous drums — 

louder and pompous the blowing of brazen horns — 

louder and blatant the ringing of tambourines — 

nearer — 

nearer — 

louder — 

louder — 

louder and frantic — 

louder and pompous — 

louder and blatant — 

and the mob approached 

and I watched the passing mass of raving beings. 

They vented their inherencies. Some sang 

alone and closed their eyes and tottered. Some, 

singing alone, smiled childishly or danced. 

Choruses howled, canonical with prayer — 

or hatred — some with counterpoint of both. 

Some pulled at sleeves of others, whispering. 

Some jostled those who went before, being pushed 

by those behind. Some stumbled carelessly 

upon big rocks or into crevices — 

some stumbling when the rocks or crevices 

were hidden by the heels of those before. 

Some wrangled over others in whose eyes 

lurked twinklings. Some repelled and others lured. 

Hands soothed or smote, many restraining these. 

Some beings were naked. Some bore up big casks 



18 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

of wine, some bulging bundles, all being whipped. 

The wan looked at the wan and uttered woes. 

Some of the wan were weighted with great bales 

of books and rambled, reading, glassy-eyed 

and bloodless, what was written by their kind. 

The beings who nourished lashes were at peace, 

for many flourished swords, defending them 

who flourished lashes. Some on crutches hopped. 

Scores scoffed at other scores. Scores went with drums 

and horns and tambourines and loudly played, 

when, with the music mingled all the sounds 

from lips which voiced defiance, mirth, despair, 

rage, avarice, rebellion, ridicule, 

passion, disgust, doubt, weariness. The strong 

went with the strong and tantalized the weak 

who clung unto the weak with blasphemies 

and tears. Some hoarsely laughed and gazed before. 

Some gazed behind, as searching for stray forms. 

A few stared upward at the rising moon. 

There were a few who walked by others, close. 

There were a few being carried. 

Borne along 
on upraised arms, a madman, laurel-wreathed, 
beckoned, and sang — 
" Pound, pound the drum, 
for the end has come ! 
Oh, the world is old! 
Tisbare! Tis cold! 
Pan's parchments fold, 
inscribed. 'Tis told 
how we, for a sum, 
ourselves have sold — 
how we took the gold 
with fingers numb ! 
Pound, pound the drum, 
for the end has come ! 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 19 



Come, one and all — 
come, join the brawl! 
Bring timbrel and gong 
for dance and song ! 
Bring wine along! 
Come from among 
the fools who bawl 
for freedom or thong ! 
They are all wrong ! 
Would drink and sprawl? 
Then join the brawl! 
Come, one and all! 

Come, centaur, away 
to propine and bray ! 
Nymphs shall be there 
to garland your hair 
and banish all care ! 
Hippomania's fair? 
Fairer are they ! 
Fool to forbear ! 
Come away, where 
enwreathed you shall lay 
and propine and bray ! 
Come, centaur, away! 

Come, bacchante old, 

out into the wold ! 

Come gaudily dressed — 

purple is best, 

with amethyst crest, 

like light in the west ! 

Shrunken the mold 

of your once round breast 

yet, ah ! to be pressed 

in a satyr's hold, 



20 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

out in the wold ! 
Come, bacchante old! 

Lead, supple faun, 
over meadow or lawn, 
your syrinx quick playing 
while carts follow, swaying 
with lambs bound for slaying 
and grapes overlaying — 
by leopards drawn, 
leopards obeying 
unmerciful flaying, 
leopards of brawn ! 
Lead, supple faun, 
over meadow or lawn ! 

Pound, pound the drum ! 

Come, follow on, come 

from pronaos and pnyx ! 

Gather and mix, 

to the Castanet's clicks ! 

Burn luminous wicks 

and tambourines thrum 

even unto the Styx ! 

Why will you transfix 

your limbs, standing dumb? 

Oh, the end has come! 

Pound, pound the drum! " 

when a shout arose 

and, for a time, the strong forgot the weak, 

the weak their weakness and the wan their woes, 

until the singer was no longer heard. 

Then crutches rattled, lashes whirred and cracked, 

swords clashed and music mixed with utterance 

and all moved onward, draggled, 

while I crouched, 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 21 

yes, even crouched from the flambeaux-flare 

and the shrieks 

and laughter 

and screams 

and shouts 

and songs 

with drums 

and horns 

and tambourines ! 

Then the mob beheld me 
and paused, before me. 

Then someone pointed — 

when many pointed — 

when all cried loudly and long 

in amusement 

and derision 

and scorn. 

Then someone lifted up a stone — 

when many others lifted stones 

and hurled them 

and bruised my flesh so it yielded blood. 

Then I beat upon that iron-bound gate 

and I writhed 

and I wailed — 

" Allow me within! 

Allow me within! " 

Yet there came no answer. 

There came no sound from behind those walls. 

Again one pointed — 

when many pointed 

and again cried loudly and long 

in amusement 

and derision 

and scorn. 



22 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Then they uttered an horror-crushing howl which rose up into 

the night and passed along the heavens 
and thundered 
and trembled 
and echoed, 

when they rushed upon me 
and scourged me 
and made me naked — 
when all cried loudly and long 
in amusement 
and derision 
and scorn, 

when someone sounded upon a drum — 
when many sounded upon their drums 
and pompous horns 
and tambourines 
and sang 
and screamed 
and shouted 
and laughed — 
when the mob moved onward 
and passed away 
and vanished, 

when the noise became a resonance 
and the flare of the flambeaux became a tint 
and the warm breeze wandered through the graceful vine. 

Then I was alone. 

Oh, I was bleeding 

and naked 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened 

and I pressed my hands against that iron-bound gate 

and I shivered 

and I gasped — 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 23 

" Allow me within! 

Allow me within! " 

and I waited 

and I listened — 

and there came no answer. 

There came no sound from behind those walls, 

though I was bleeding 

and naked 

and famished 

and sick 

and maddened 

and I looked above, to the midnight skies, 

where the moon was waning, 

where the stars seemed leering, 

when I reeled 

and sank 

and sprawled in the dust — 

when that same dust mingled with my blood 

and the warm breeze wandered through the graceful vine. 

Then came a being, veiled, with many slaves. 

The being looked upon me, 

The being bended above me 

and kneeled beside me 

and an hand passed over my flesh 

and lips of flesh touched mine. 

Then the being arose 

and commanded the slaves to bear me away, 

when they bore me away through an iron-bound gate which had 

fallen down 
and into the place inclosed with high, stone walls which were 

mossed and crumbling. 
'Twas a pillared place. 
'Twas a ruined place. 
'Twas a lonely place 
where lizards rustled — 



24 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

where vampires chattered — 
where vipers glided. 
'Twas a mighty place. 
'Twas a deserted place. 
'Twas a mockery. 

Where once had been a sumptuous couch 

was a crumbling marble slab 

and a marble balustrade was crumbling, mossed, 

and an hundred marble columns of a monstrous colonnade had 
fallen down and were crumbling, vined, 

and an ivory throne was wracked and moulded 

and a canopy of silver had fallen down and was long corroded 

and upon the rise to the throne laid a skull which was over- 
turned and around the brows of which was a silver coronet, 
corroded, 

and beside which rested a silver bowl, corroded, 

and the moon shone 

and the stars shone 

and into the moonlight towered a row of poplars from behind 
the colonnade 

and before the colonnade rolled a row of weeping willows whose 
branches, trailing, swayed with the wind 

and the wind moved like a saddened woman who listens 

and the lizards rustled 

and the vampires chattered 

and the vipers glided 

and we loved 

and we kissed. 

We embraced 

and we loved. 

Around an handle of the bowl 
which rested, corroded, beside the skull 
a viper coiled. 
The willows swayed 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 25 

with the wind which began to whisper like a saddened woman 

who, listening, utters a name 
and on a louder whisper 
came music of violin 
and violoncello 
and harp 
and bassoon 
and piccolo 
and oboe 
and cymbal 
and tympani — 

music scarcely louder than the whispering of the wind 
because of an hidden distance 
within the colonnade 
and the music rushed with pizzicati 
and trill 

and tremolo 

i 

and crash — 

music scarcely louder than the whispering of the wind — 

and from within the colonnade 

came a skeleton in cowl 

with a vase of pallid wine. 

Oh, we loved 

and we kissed. 

We embraced 

and we loved 

and the music sounded louder than the whispering of the wind 

and the lizards rustled 

and the vampires chattered 

and the vipers glided 

and the skeleton in cowl 

advanced beyond the colonnade and wandered amongst the 

hundred marble columns which had fallen down and were 

vined 
and wandered 



26 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and wandered 
and wandered 
and a piccolo sounded alone and played a slow and rambling 

air with many mordents 
and the moon shone 
and the stars shone 
and the skeleton in cowl 

wandered by the balustrade which was crumbling, mossed — 
approached the rise to the throne which was wracked and 

moulded — 
paused before the silver bowl 
and we loved 
and we kissed. 
We embraced 
and we loved 

and the music sounded louder from within the colonnade 
and the violins were in tremolo 
and the bassoons were hoarse and deliberate 
and we loved 
and we kissed. 

Then the skeleton in cowl 

raised the corroded silver bowl — 

filled the bowl with pallid wine. 

We embraced 

and we loved 

and I pressed the lips to mine 

and the music sounded louder 

and louder 

and louder 

and it quickened 

and quickened 

and quickened 

and the violins were suppliant 

and the bassoons were ominous 

and the harps were sensuous 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 27 

and the tympani were frightful 
and the oboes were cruel 
and the piccolos were invoking 
and the violoncelli were desperate 
and the cymbals were maddening 
and the music grew louder 
and louder 
and louder 
and quicker 
and quicker 
and quicker 

and the skeleton in cowl 
approached us with the silver bowl 
brimming with the pallid wine 
and we loved 
and we kissed. 
, We embraced 
and we loved 

and the music grew louder 
and louder 
and louder 
and quicker 
and quicker 
and quicker 
and the violins sounded like fettered women who shriek desires 

for men who are denied them 
and the bassoons sounded like masculine monsters groaning in 

the act of rape 
and the harps sounded like women who murmur by the couches 

of drowsing lords 
and the tympani sounded like hordes which come upon lands 

by night 
and the oboes sounded like phantoms who pause at windows 

on moonlight nights of winter and laugh to scorn and float 

away across the shimmering snows 



28 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and the piccolos sounded like them who laugh in the sunshine 

and run along over bodies of the dying 
and the violoncelli sounded like them who wander in autumn 

rains and weep and cry aloud with the winds 
and the cymbals sounded like them who appear at thresholds 

and announce the coming of cuckold lords 
and the music rushed with wail 
and groan 
and trill 
and rumble 
and crash 

and the lizards rustled 
and the vampires chattered 
and the vipers glided. 

On the crumbling marble slab 
where once had been the sumptuous couch 
we reclined 
and we loved 
and we kissed. 
We embraced 
and we loved 
and the skeleton in cowl 
came near 
and nearer — 

holding forth the silver bowl 
brimming so with pallid wine 
and we loved 
and we kissed. 
We embraced 
and we loved 

and the music grew louder 
and louder 
and louder 

and the branches of the weeping willows, trailing, swayed with 
the wind, unheard, 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 29 

and the lizards rustled, unheard, 

and the vampires chattered, unheard, 

for the music grew louder 

and louder 

and louder 

and quicker 

and quicker 

and quicker 

and the violins sounded like women who cry out in palpitation 

and the bassoons sounded like masculine monsters who run at 

large amongst women in chains 
and the harps sounded like women who exult at the strength 

of lords who are mighty of muscle 
and the tympani sounded like hordes which come upon lands 

by night when there is thunder 
and the oboes sounded like phantoms who sweep with the swift 

winds of the night-storms of winter and call to one another 

through the hissing snows 
and the piccolos sounded like sweet-faced fools who giggle in 

the sunshine and pirouette upon the bodies of the dead 
and the violoncelli sounded like them who wander in autumn 

rains and sink down by fallen trunks and moan 
and the cymbals sounded like them who appear at thresholds 

for the second time and announce the coming of cuckold 

lords 
and the music rushed with shriek 
and groan 
and rumble 
and crash 

and the skeleton in cowl 
stood beside the crumbling slab, 
holding forth the silver bowl — 
offering me the pallid wine 
and I gasped 
and I paused 
and I laughed 
and I pressed the lips to mine. 



30 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Then I grasped the silver bowl. 

Around an handle of the bowl 

coiled the viper, gaping, hissing — 

and the viper hissed unheard 

for the music shrieked 

and wailed 

and groaned 

and trilled 

and rumbled 

and crashed 

and throbbed 

and throbbed 

and throbbed 

and became a din 

and again I gasped 

and paused 

and laughed. 

Then I raised the silver bowl. 

Then the skeleton in cowl 

stood beside us, motionless, 

and the head sank down upon the breast 

and the cowl fell down and hid the countenance 

and the arms hung loose and low as burdened with the vase 

and the music became a charivari 

and trembled 

and trembled 

and trembled 

and quickened 

and quickened 

and quickened 

and wailed 

and rumbled 

and crashed 

and I drank the pallid wine 

and the dregs were the dust of a thousand years 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 31 

and the dung of vipers 

and I shuddered 

and I cursed 

and the skeleton raised the head 

and the cowl hung down and hid the countenance 

and the arms hung loose and low as burdened with the vase 

and the viper which coiled, gaping, around the handle of the 

bowl 
pierced my fingers with its fangs 
and the music ceased, upon a note, 
and left a sudden silence 
and the wind sounded like a saddened woman who, listening, 

utters a name 
and the lizards rustled 
and the vampires chattered 
and the vipers glided. 

Then I flung away the bowl 

and it fell 

and it struck 

and it sounded 

and the lizards scurried 

and the vampires fluttered 

and screamed 

and arose in a cloud which spread abroad and obscured the 

waning moon 
and they rumbled 
and they thundered 
and the vipers hissed. 

Then the skeleton in cowl 

raised the vase of pallid wine 

and turned 

and wandered away 

and wandered 

and wandered 

and wandered 



32 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and disappeared within the colonnade whose hundred marble 

columns had fallen down and were crumbling, vined, 
and into the starlight towered the row of poplars from behind 

the colonnade 
and before the colonnade rolled the row of weeping willows 

whose branches, trailing, swayed with the wind 
and the wind moved like a saddened woman who listens 
and I moaned 
and I arose 
and wandered by the balustrade which was crumbling, 

mossed — 
approached the rise to the throne which was wracked and 

moulded 
and I wandered out of the ruined place 
and beside the walls of the ruined place 
was an unknown shore of a sounding ocean 
and I sank upon the sands. 

The sands of that unknown shore were broadened to a vast 

expanse by an ebbing which seemed to be endless and were 

forsaken by all beings 
and the wave-forsaken rocks were draped with weeds which 

hung like corpses impaled upon battlements 
and along the shore rushed a wind from across a thousand miles 

of ocean 
and the stars and the waning moon were dimmed by smearings 

of vapor from an approaching storm 
and the heavens and the ocean were blended by the glooms of 

the distant storm 
and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 33 

and I was supine 

and I was naked 

and the sands arose 

and hissed 

and drifted around me 

and upon me 

and my hairs mingled with the sands 

and my arms were thrown outward upon the sands 

and my fingers clutched the sands 

and were embedded 

and my eyes were closed 

and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 

— sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 

and no ship passed upon that ocean 
and no bird passed through the air 
and there were no footprints in the sands save mine 
and for hours I remained unmoving, upon the sands 
while the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thou- 
sand miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 
while the sands arose 
and hissed 

and drifted around me 
and upon me — 
while the ocean sounded 



34 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and sounded 
and sounded. 

Then, when the moon and stars had long been hidden — 

when the waters had drawn themselves afar into the glooms — 

a being came near me 

and kneeled beside me 

and fingers of flesh found mine within the sands 

and pressed them 

and the being bended above me 

and lips of flesh touched mine, 

yet I remained unmoving 

and my eyes remained closed 

and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 

— sounded 

and sounded 

and sounded 

and the fingers dropped mine 

and an hour passed 

while the sands arose 

and hissed 

and drifted around me 

and upon me, 

when a low voice said — 

" and we loved 

and we kissed. 

We embraced 

and we loved — " 

Yet I remained unmoving 



.-• 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 35 

and my eyes remained closed 

and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thou- 
sand miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 

— sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 

and the voice was silent 

and an hour passed 

while the sands arose 

and drifted around me 

and upon me, 

when a low voice said — 

" — and for a moon the wind shall blow in my face 

for even tonight I am going afar across a thousand miles of 

ocean 
and my garments shall trail behind me and far beyond your 

reach — " 
Yet I remained unmoving 
and my eyes remained closed 
and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 

— sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 



36 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and the voice remained silent 

and an hour passed 

while the sands arose 

and hissed 

and drifted around me 

and upon me, 

when the being went away in silence. 

Yet I remained unmoving 

and my eyes remained closed 

and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded — 

— sounded 

and sounded 

and sounded 

and the sands arose 

and hissed 

and drifted around me 

and upon me 

and my hairs mingled with the sands 

and my arms remained thrown outward upon the sands 

and my fingers clutched the sands 

and were embedded 

and the wind rushed onward and onward from across a thousand 

miles of ocean 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded 
and the ocean sounded 
and sounded 
and sounded. 



OUT OF SEASON 



OUT OF SEASON 

J J I ^WAS at Old Orchard when summer was feeble with 
motherhood which had been abused 
and was sallow and hollow-eyed and weary of bearing 
children. 
'Twas in the careless and hopeless turning of life which man 

calls August, 
when the mother was done with cradle-songs 
and crooned old passion-songs with a quaking tongue. 
'Twas in those days when poor summer was strutting in the rags 
of old ribaldries. 

The ocean was a warrior reclining naked and proud of being 

looked upon 
by those whose eyes sparkled with mighty lusts 
or mighty illusions 
or mighty woes, 

or glimmered with the dreams of them. 
The warrior was proud of his nakedness 
and slumbered unannoyed by the exodus of bundle-clouds 
which hurried away across the azure-plains 
even as children going on crusades — 

unannoyed by the vessels which crawled across his fearful ex- 
panse of breasts. 
Slumbering, the warrior snored. 
Slumbering, he carelessly acknowledged the tributes from the 

sun. 
Slumbering, he seemed to know that across his breasts and 

around his loins 
lolled wind-women, lust-hot, to sigh and tease. 
Slumbering, he throbbed. 

There were two musicians who wandered about the town and 
along the beach. 



40 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

There was a man who wore a fancy vest of silk brocade. 
There was a painted woman wearing many beads. 

One musician had no arms 

and he played a mouth-harp fixed to a rack which was strapped 

to his shoulders, 
and one musician sang, and he had arms. 

For years the man who had arms had wandered in streets 

and sung 

and sung 

and sung 

and waited upon the man who had no arms, 

performing duties which make men shudder — 

the dressing, 

undressing, 

the washing, 

the feeding 

and other things which make men shudder. 

There was a reason. Years before, they had started out, 
one Sunday morning, for the beach, on an excursion. Both had 
drunk heavily before breakfast, intending to make a day of it. 
By the time they reached the depot they were dizzy and silly. 
There was a big crowd, as usual on excursions. The boys stood 
by the track in order to dive for seats in the smoker. The train 
was making up. They began fooling. One lurched. The train 
was passing slowly. The one who lurched dropped under a 
car, in a heap. The other leaped after him, stooped, crawled, 
pushed him to the other side of the track and beyond it, then 
drew back. He was too late to save himself, however. The 
wheels took away his arms at the elbows, even grazing the head. 
The man whose arms remained was grateful, of course, and swore 
that he would never forsake the man whose arms had been 
taken away. He consecrated his life to this duty; 
so, for years he had sung in streets with him who had no arms, 
though he was tired of singing in streets 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 41 

and of performing duties which make men shudder — 

the dressing, 

undressing, 

the washing, 

the feeding, 

and other things which make men shudder. 

He sang 

and sang 

and sang. 

The man who had arms was singing on the beach. 

He sang 

and sang 

and sang 

and passed the cap of him who had no arms 

while he who had no arms was playing the mouth-harp fixed to 

the rack 
and played 
and played 
and played 

and the man who wore the fancy vest of silk brocade 
waited beyond the crowd, 
listening to the songs 

and the painted woman wearing many beads 
waited beyond the crowd, 
playing with her beads. 

The name of the man who had no arms was Jimmie. 
The name of the man possessing arms was Bennie. 

Bennie, doing the crowd, passed the cap to the man with 
the fancy vest. 

The man spoke to him. 

" How would you like a regular job? " 

" What doing? " 

The singer was disinterested and impatient. 

" Singing — steady, for the winter." 



42 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

The singer turned away. 

" Eighteen dollars a week," persisted the man, touching the 
arm of the other. 

The singer turned back. 

" My name — " continued the man, intercepting any reply 
and ignoring any attempt — " my name is Higgins. I have a 
moving-picture business in Caribou. There's steady work for 
a year, anyway. Got to have somebody that'll come and stay 
— no rummies or fatheads. You look like the right man. You 
can certainly eat them songs up. What do you say? " 

The singer was looking away — somewhere — and the 
sleeping warrior obstructed his vision. He heard the har- 
monica. He shuddered. He was silent. 

" I'll pay your fare up," said Higgins, " and board is cheap 
up there." 

" Can't," murmured the singer, clutching the money-cap. 

" Well — ," said Higgins, taking a chew of tobacco — " it's 
a hell of a lot better than the proposition you're up against, 
I'll bet a five-sheet. You ain't got to tramp streets in all 
weathers and climates. Your money is sure every Tuesday. 
If you work alone the money is all yours — " 

" Can't," murmured the singer, clutching the money-cap. 

" What's the matter? Want more money ? " — and 
Higgins spat, as if to clear for further action. 

"You don't understand," said the man who had arms, with 
a snarl, " I'm duty-bound to see this guy through. He saved 
my life and lost his arms doing it. So I'm up against it." 

" I see! " exclaimed the man with the fancy vest, with a 
clever assumption of compassion grafted into his surprise. 

For a minute both were silent. Higgins looked straight at 
the singer. The singer looked carelessly at the sea. There was 
the smoke of a steamer which must have been headed for 
Europe. It was probably bearing hundreds of people away 
toward wherever they wished to go and for reasons of their own 
in going. Why could some people go wherever they wished? 
Because they had enough money. That was the only reason 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 43 

the singer could find. He was startled by hearing Higgins 
remark — 

" Well, think it over, anyhow." 

" I will — " and the man who had arms really meant what 
he said, though he didn't realize it, at the time. He aroused 
and was going. 

"All right, Mr " 

" Meighan." 

" Meighan. All right. I'll be around here for a week." 

" See you later," called Bennie, who was even then hurrying 
to his work 
where he sang 
and sang 
and sang — 
where the man who had no arms played the mouth-harp fixed 

to the rack 
and played 
and played 
and played. 

That night the man who had arms met the painted woman 

wearing many beads 
and she smiled on him 
and he smiled on her. 
They were friends 
and they paused 

and conversed in murmurs, smiling — 
she playing with her beads. 

Women passed and wished they had the courage. 
Men passed, too, and wished they had the woman. 

Before he left her he told her of his prospect 

and when he left her he sauntered into a bar-room and ordered 

beer 
and sipped it 
and conversed with others who sipped. 



44 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Laughing, the painted woman hurried to his room, 

playing with her beads, 

glancing with glittering eyes. 

She cautiously opened the door. 

The light from other places entered at a window. 

The man who had no arms was stretched on the bed, asleep. 

The woman lighted a lamp. 

Then he who had no arms awoke and uttered ludicrous noises, 

being confused, 
and waggled his armstubs 
and raised himself 
and sat upright 
and stared 
and laughed. 

The woman laughed with him who had no arms, 
for they were friends. 

Later, while she applied her powder-puff, she observed — 

" Dandy offer your partner had wasn't it? " 

It was, whatever it was. It must have been, it seemed. 
But Jimmie wondered why his partner had not mentioned it. 
What was it? 

Jimmie did not answer at once. His eyes became suddenly 
wide open. He was staring for the first time, spellbound, at 
what he had been watching constantly, for years. 

'Tis a way we have. 

For what seemed the first time., he had reason to believe 
that his partner was considering or was even willing to consider 
forsaking him. What seemed the first proof of the long-real- 
ized process of change with its long-expected event came to 
him who had no arms and was terrifying and staggering, and 
more so — we are marvelously peculiar — more so than had 
there been no warning. He was indignant, infuriated. 

'Tis a way we have. 

The man who had no arms 
forever nourished a whim. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 45 

" Don't you think so?" persisted the woman, having fin- 
ished her toilet. 

" Great! " exclaimed Jimmie, posing as one who is pleased 
with anything at all. He turned pale — 

She sat on the edge of the bed. 

" If he accepts, are you going with him? " she added, care- 
lessly, playing with one of his empty shirtsleeves. 

He shrugged his shoulders, and, turning his head, gazed 
toward a corner of the room. 

" Perhaps," he murmured. Yet he knew he would not go. 
He knew that Bennie did not want him. He knew that Meighan 
was taxing martyrdom and had been doing so for too many 
years. At first, Meighan had been a servant — kind, anxious, 
compassionate. At every opportunity he had shared his amours 
with his partner. He had helped the helpless man at baths and 
performed with the greatest patience the necessary but re- 
pulsive services which armless people require. He had care- 
fully put the cripple in bed every night and had remained with 
him to talk, or read aloud. But solicitude had changed to toler- 
ance. The servant had become a patron. Jimmie was the one 
who fully realized that — Jimmie alone. 'Twas long before that, 
that Meighan had gradually become disagreeable, indifferent, 
brutal. Jimmie had not known the embrace of a woman for 
more than a year before the appearance of the painted woman 
wearing may beads and it was she, not he, who had begun the 
affair. Then, too, baths were possible only when the two hap- 
pened to be near the sea and even then his clothes were hastily 
drawn on over an undried skin. The undeniably repulsive duties 
were often neglected to the point of danger to health or even 
life. At the lunch-counters the dependent jaws waited inactive 
for minutes at a time or labored ludicrously with excessive quan- 
tities of cold food which had been crammed between them by 
one who ate his own meals with as few interruptions as possible. 
At night, the animate manikin was denuded and left to me- 
chanically crawl into bed. It frequently remained in bed — or, 
at any rate, in the bedroom for an entire Sunday regardless of 



46 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

physical or sentimental desires. So, what were the chances of 
his being taken along? No. If Meighan intended to go, he 
intended to go alone. Jimmie knew that for him there was noth- 
ing but the poorhouse. His folks were dead. Of course there 
was nothing but the poorhouse. 

The man who had no arms 
forever nourished a whim. 

The man who had arms 

forever thought of him who had no arms 

and of himself 

and he was bound — 

bound by the empty sleeves of him who had no arms. 

In time, inevitably, he began to compare his lot with that 
of others in the great drift of things. 

Everything went its course — perhaps to consummation, 
perhaps to destruction. Nevertheless, everything went. Every- 
one went his way — perhaps to happiness, perhaps to failure. 
Nevertheless, everyone went. Nothing remained, stagnant. 
Nobody waited, chained. Nobody looked over the shoulder 
save at lust. Nothing of him had been left under the train. His 
body had been brought forth whole, and more, the desire for 
independent existence was as whole as the body. Once, he had 
an impression, a lurking impression, that Jimmie might have had 
the same desire along with his incomplete body, and the impres- 
sion created an embarrassment comparable with that of one 
who, passing along a street, hears a sardonic laugh from behind 
closed window-blinds. Then he ceased comparing. He ceased 
thinking. He knew only that he wanted to be free 
and he trembled 
even as a prisoner trembles at the sight of the skies and the 

hills when the prison door has been left ajar by the drowsing 

jailor, and swings with an happening wind — 
and movement made him tremble 
for everything around him moved. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 47 

Sometimes he wondered why some beings are bound to- 
gether — wondered who binds them and by what right they are 
bound — 
and he trembled, 

though he ever thought of the man who had saved his life 
and his arms, 
and he sang 
and sang 
and sang. 

Sometimes he experienced a sensation of swaying, sus- 
pended. It was caused by the maneuvering of the thong of 
convention which evolution had found in the gutter, binding 
one who was aware of being bound yet who was unable to un- 
bind himself — the thong which evolution was holding up by 
the trailing end, in derision. It was then that the singer won- 
dered which was worse, the poorhouse for one when there was 
nothing else or the eternal singing in streets for another when 
there were other things 
and he trembled, 

though he ever thought of the man who had saved his life 
and his arms 
and he sang 
and sang 
and sang. 

Are not worthless years an exorbitant price for a drunken day? 
Are not worthless years a poor exchange for a moment of pain 

which might have ended pain? 
So he chanted — 
often chanted — 
almost aloud — 

though he ever thought of the man who had saved his life 
and his arms 
and he sang 
and sang 



48 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and sang 
and trembled 
and gasped, 

for his throat seemed bound with the empty sleeves of a shirt 
the body of which was filled with useless flesh. 

The man who had no arms 
forever nourished a whim. 

Days passed. 

Bennie, suspended by the thong, at an height far greater 
than any he had ever known, swung forth and back between 
principle and evasion. He swung till he was dizzy and the thong 
was frayed. He longed to be on the ground with other people 
yet he dared not sever the thong. The distance from the 
ground was too great. He dreaded even a further fraying of 
the fibres. Consequently he continued to swing. He knew only 
that he was suspended. He was afraid to know anything else. 
His mind nearly ceased to act, he was so dizzy. He merely de- 
sired, vaguely desired. Suddenly the action of the thong was 
stopped. It was arrested by the hand of the man with the fancy 
vest. 

Higgins searched for the singer, one night. They met on 
the depot platform. It was after Jimmie had been left to go to 
bed. Meighan was wandering around the edges of the crowd — 
and there was a crowd, though the hour was late, for it was the 
last night of the season. Too, it was raining and the platform 
was the only sheltered promenade. There was dissension 
amongst the wind-women. They had aroused the sleeping 
warrior to a state of wrath. Far out in the darkness they 
wrangled, their shrill bedlam dominated by the majestic in- 
tonation of the hen-pecked titan, some of them rushing inland, 
groaning, snarling, dripping with cold perspiration and fitfully 
slatting the downpour this way and that, as women do neckties 
and shirts which happen to be left lying around. Everyone 
was draggled. The platform was splashing with sand-mixed 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 49 

puddles. The rain was monotonously noisy and violent. Some- 
times it clattered so that voices had to be raised. Meighan was 
wandering around the edges of the crowd. Higgins came out 
of the crowd. Without making the slightest salutation he 
hastily asked what the singer would do about going to Caribou. 
Not receiving an immediate answer he continued, elaborating 
upon the opportunity and emphasizing the logic of acceptance. 
Suddenly, seeming to have exhausted all points of argument, he 
ceased and looked straight at the eyes of the singer, waiting for 
the effect. There was none. Meighan was impaled. He was 
faint. Within him was measureless desire, turbulent and aug- 
menting, yet fastened somehow by some painful and tantaliz- 
ing power, like the tail of a snake which is pinned to a stump 
by children called innocent. Under such a strain a woman 
would scream and fall to the ground or run away in silence and 
wander in solitude. Under such a strain a man would do either 
— if not afraid of being seen. Meighan was perhaps afraid of 
being seen. His eyes were glassy. He leaned against a post of 
the platform-roof and began trimming his fingernails. That 
was an habit of his, not an esthetic. 

"You wait here for-a few minutes," said Higgins, at length, 
" I'm going over to the shine chair and have my shoes oiled. 
Think it over. I'll be right back. Have a shine? " 

" No," murmured Meighan. 

"All right. Wait." 

Higgins re-entered the crow T d. 

Attached to the post against which Meighan was leaning 
was a rainspout through which water scuttled, gurgling and 
tinkling, as though chuckling. Rain was being driven against 
his back, but he didn't care. He was callous. He was dazed. 
Some things happened. Others did not. So he sized things 
up. Soon even that philosophy dimmed out. He was not even 
thinking. Soon, again, the thong started swinging. It started 
with a jerk. He thought of the man who had no arms, 
and of himself 
and he trembled 



50 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and argued 
and cursed 
and despaired. 

The thong swung recklessly, irregularly. The frayed por- 
tion was pulling apart. Fibre after fibre snapped. The desire 
to be himself and claim his natural inheritance grew stronger. 
It became savage. The idea of duty weakened, though it clung 
with undeniable fortitude. Finally the last strand snapped — 
snapped so quickly that Meighan was not aware of the snap- 
ping. He was not conscious of falling. He knew only that he 
struck the ground. There he was, on both feet, with other 
people. 

He was really there. 
He looked about 
and closed his knife 
and put it away 

and hurried to find the man with the fancy vest 
and on his way he lowly hummed — 

" Everybody's doin' it. 
Doin' what? 
Doin' what? " 

He passed the painted woman wearing many beads. 

She was talking with a fakir, at a bazar. Meighan pulled her 
waist, as he went by. She turned. He tipped his hat. 

" So long," he called back. 

" So long, kid," she answered, somewhat seriously — 
" where are you going? " 

" Caribou." 

" Caribou? " 

" Caribou." 

" So long," and she turned back, quickly, to her conversa- 
tion. Meighan thought she was indifferent and he hurried on 
again, to find the man with the fancy vest. 

Higgins was still in the shoe-shining chair. Bennie waited 
at a distance, for a moment. Higgins beckoned, so the other 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 51 

advanced and stood beside the chair. The singer stared at the 
boot-black for a while. He was trembling. He was twitching 
his closed lips this way and that. 

" How about it? " called Higgins. 

Meighan nodded, gazing at the working bootblack. 

" Good ! " exclaimed Higgins, explosively. 

Meighan smiled, gazing at the working bootblack. 

" Be here at eleven, tomorrow forenoon," continued the 
other, " the train goes at ten minutes past." 

" All right," said Meighan, smiling happily. 

" Don't fail." 

" No." 

The man who had arms turned and moved away. He car- 
ried his head high. His eyes sparkled with the sense of freedom 
— freedom in the abstract. His steps were firm and careless. 
Why not? He was delivered from care. It was enough to be 
free. Such a sudden conception of freedom, in Meighan, was 
like the focus of a camera — indiscriminate. It took in every- 
thing within range. It seemed to him that he ought to be al- 
lowed to select this woman here, that one there — kissing any 
one or all, unrestricted and unmolested. It seemed to him that 
he should have the right to order one man to do this thing, an- 
other that, undisputed. He elbowed the crowd, smiling. He 
stopped and bought a cigar. Then he went on, smoking and 
smiling. Soon, suddenly, a parasitic instinct asserted itself — 
that of celebration, which prefers success to any other state. 
It occurred to Meighan to get drunk. He went into a dive and 
bought a quart. 

The painted woman wearing many beads 
hurried to the room of him who had no arms — 
hurried without laughing 
or playing with her beads 

and hurriedly opened the door. Jimmie was asleep. He awoke, 
startled. The woman rushed to the bedside. 
" Sh ! " 



52 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

" What's the matter? " he stammered. 

" Goodbye, honey! " 

The utterance was mutilated by a kiss. 

" Something happened? Going away? " exclaimed Jimmie, 
loudly. 

"Sh!" 

Another kiss. 

"Me? No! " she muttered. Then, after looking sharply at 
him, " But you are, ain't you? Trying to give me the slip, boy ? " 

Jimmie stared. 

" Going to give me the slip, was you? " 

" What do you mean? " Jimmie gasped. 

" Ain't you going away tomorrow? Bennie said he was 
going to Caribou — in the morning, I suppose," she muttered 
again, standing motionless. 

Jimmie scowled. He held his breath. Then he laughed, ar- 
ranging the pillows under his head, so, by an excusable move- 
ment, venting a desire to writhe. 

She laughed, also. 

" Never mind," she said, " I'll forgive you. You're a good 
kid." 

Another kiss. 

" Are you going with him? " 

" No," whispered Jimmie, or hissed, disinterestedly. 

" Going home to your folks? " 

"Sure!" 

He smiled. 

Another kiss. 

There were footsteps on the stairs, below. 

" Is that him, suppose? " 

She sprang toward Jimmie. 

The last kiss. She tiptoed from the room and sidled around 
a turn in the corridor. A strange man passed. She giggled and 
hurried away 
with a twinkle in her eyes 
and playing with her beads. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 53 

The man who had no arms 
forever nourished a whim. 

Before leaving the dive, Meighan drank several whiskeys 
with a chance acquaintance of the summer. When he left, he 
staggered. He stumbled into his room. He lighted the lamp, 
reeling. Then he drank an half water-glass of whiskey. He 
offered another half-glass to Jimmie. Jimmie drank. Bennie 
sat on the bed and resumed trimming his fingernails. 
Then each man said what each could not help saying 
and one man raised his voice and cursed and accused 
and one man uttered impatient things 
and drank 
and drank 
and drank 

and trimmed his fingernails 
and one man wept who could not wipe his tears 
and moaned 
and complained 

and waved his empty sleeves upon his armstubs 
and looked at the man who trimmed his fingernails — 
the man who looked away 
and drank 
and drank 
and drank 

and shrugged his shoulders. 
The man who wept and could not wipe his tears 
clutched the clothes of the bed in his teeth 
and writhed 
and sobbed 
and gasped 
and cried to a god 
and cursed 

and the other man undressed 
and drank 
and drank 
and drank 



54 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and extinguished the light 

and went to sleep to avoid what seemed the foolish talk of one 

who had no common sense. 
Soon he snored and none could have aroused him 
and he left his knife on the bed, unclosed. 

The man who had no arms 
forever nourished a whim 
and he lay in the dark 
and panted 
and sobbed 
and writhed 

and found himself sinking into himself 
and the pit was deep 

and he looked above and saw a milky way of great processions 
wherein were men and women who were kissing — 
wherein were faceless men who fought with rusted swords — 
wherein were men who ravished screaming women — 
wherein were women who tore the flesh of men — 
wherein were women who were kissing women — 
wherein were men who were embracing men — 
wherein were women who were beating bulging breasts — 
wherein were men and women who were sweeping daggers and 
plunging them into breasts and backs and groins and clap- 
ping hands besmeared with blood — 
wherein were horses which trampled in the midst, with many 

wild beasts — 
when one of the faceless men who fought with rusted swords 
approached and raised his sword above the head of him who had 

no arms 
when he who had no arms arose 
and glanced about the bed 
and saw the knife that had been left unclosed 
and grasped it in his teeth — 

grasped it so that the blade extended toward one ear. On ac- 
count of the years of playing the mouth-harp the muscles of the 
neck and jaws were abnormally developed, and the teeth 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 55 

tightened upon the handle to hold it as firmly as might the 
strongest fingers. Jimmie then crept out of bed. There was no 
need of using caution, for Meighan was snoring in the sleep of 
everyone who is absolutely lost in drunkenness. He was lying 
on his back. Jimmie moved around the foot of the bed and 
stood by the side. There he paused, staring. Suddenly the 
sleeper moved. Jimmie started. He bent over Meighan quickly 
— placed the point of the blade where he thought the heart 
might be — with a swift movement ripped the flesh — then 
drove the blade downward into the gash, downward till the 
handle struck a bone. The trunk wriggled but slightly yet 
Jimmie climbed upon it and wound his legs around those of the 
murdered man, hugging the shoulders with his armstubs. 
There he waited for a few minutes. At length he felt the breast 
of his shirt becoming wet. He arose. The knife was still in the 
body. The weight of his own body had pressed the handle 
down so that it laid on the flesh, partly closing the knife, with 
the blood bubbling up around it. He would have removed the 
knife but he hated the idea of tasting Meighan's blood. 
So he wiped the blood from his face upon the pillows 
and sat in bed 
and listened 
and gasped 
and waited 
and waited 
and waited. 

They found them in the morning, side by side. The face 
of the dead was then covered and the face of the living was 
washed. The dead was soon dressed and straightened out and 
the living was dressed and led away, 
with a crowd behind — 
a crowd that was far more eager than any which had ever 

gathered around him in the streets 
and the painted woman wearing many beads 
followed with the crowd, 
playing with her beads. 



OTHERS, NAMELESS 



OTHERS, NAMELESS 



Augusta is a city of dignity. 

It is a city of old mansions. 

The approach is wonderful. 

As you ride over in the electrics, from Winthrop, you look 
down, you look far down, upon valley after valley, some holding 
lakes, until, at last, you see ahead of you heights which are 
greater than those upon which you are riding — 
heights covered with dense forests 
or farms of many acres, 
with wMte houses 
and big barns 
and broad fields — 
sunswept, perhaps — 
heights which you feel do not rise from those upon which you 

ride. 
If swept by the sun, their distance, as you feel it, is increased 
and they are even higher by their glimmering magnificence. 
You feel that there must be a valley beyond the heights upon 

which you ride, a mighty one. 
There is a valley beyond, a mighty valley. 
It is that of the Kennebec, the climax of the valleys. 
Soon, you come to the city of old mansions. 

On one of the days at Winthrop, I went to Augusta, for the 
first time. These heights were sunswept, that morning. We 
passed on. Then came the descent amongst the old mansions. 
There they were, marvelous old things, behind their towering 
old trees, or beyond their expansive, forbidding lawns. Then 
came the continued descent into the good-looking, sufficiently 
aged business section. Approaching this, I happened to look 



60 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

down at the right, yes, still farther down, very far down. There, 

at last, was the Kennebec, famous, lovely, sensuous, immense, a 

bit indolent, that morning, dreaming away in the half-light of 

a forenoon fog. A four-masted schooner was asleep, dreaming, 

by the opposite shore. The many great, overhanging elms were 

sleeping, dreaming, too. 

I know the dreams of the Kennebec 

for the forms of my fathers appear in those dreams. 

Some labor with axes, felling trees, hewing ribs for many ships. 

Some tug at capstans, stand at helms, climb through riggings, 

watch at compasses. 
Some sit in great houses, smoking, drinking, playing poker. 
Some lie in gutters, drunken, dependent. 
Some wander, guilt-struck. 
Some hurry past, laughing. 
Some kiss pretty women. 
Some rise from the waters of distant seas and are dim and white 

and ghastly. 
My mother has told me, on stormy days, the dreams of the 

Kennebec — 
Three of her brothers are dim and white and ghastly. 



II 

I have a wonderful garden. 

Everything runs wild. 

The grass grows high and goes to seed and the dandelions go to 

seed 
with burdock 
and plantain 
and mint 
and pigweed 
and smartweed. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 61 

There is a mighty woodbine which hangs along the rain-trough 
of the barn, looped beautifully, and along the fence of the 
henyard. It is bronze and purple in autumn — 

leaves of bronze, 

berries of purple. 

Birds eat the berries. 

There is an old, old climbing rosebush — older than I — 
beside and above the front door of the house. Hundreds of 
big, pink roses bow its upper limbs. Its lower thorns are as 
large as the spurs of roosters. 

There are other roses, too. 

There are many plum-trees bearing yellow fruit. 

There are raspberry-bushes. 

There are goldenglow 

and fleur-de-lis 

and hollyhock 

and striped grass 

and heliotrope 

and Virginia creeper 

and sunflower 

and bleeding heart 

and columbine 

and peone 

and lily of the valley 

and English buttercup 

and some little vine which runs in the grass and bears blue 
flowers and smells like geranium. 

Today these things all drip with sounding, unceasing rain. 
The leaves are all twitching, pelted with big drops — 
yes, everything runs wild 
for everything I love I leave alone. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



III 

— the bobolink singing, 
singing when he wishes, 
going where it pleases, 
free to sing and go — 

— the Irish-green bug which alighted, a moment ago, on the 

road, 
hitching away wherever it wishes to go 
or to where it knows not, 
free to do what it can — 

— the sensual, humming, fitful wind as fitful, constant and 
strong as the wind of the sea, 

humming like the wind of the sea, 

as sensual as the wind of the sea 

though smelling of apple-blossoms 

and all the new things drenched with days of rain and steaming 

beneath a triumphant sun — 
steaming and glowing 
at hand and afar 
for miles 
and miles — 
hills of glowing green, 
swamps of glowing green 

all swept by the wind so like the wind of the sea, 
the uncommanded wind — 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 63 



IV 

— the gigantic, green-sprinkled willows leaning over the 

winding and peaceful and sunswept stream 
and the flatboat which is tied at the foot of a willow — 
the glossy and motionless pads and buds of lilies which rest 

upon the slow and muddy waters — 
the thousands of leafing birches in the sunswept distance — 
the ploughed and planted fields and the blossoming orchards 

in the sunswept distance — 
the wooded and green-sprinkled hills in the sunswept distance, 

where I would live forever — 



V 

The rising sun created its usual shimmer in the eastern 
vapors and along the quiet, green, ebbing waters of the inlet. 
Once in a while a wave would flash as it rolled and slumped on 
the tiny beach, barely sounding. Once in a while a sluggish, 
pungent breeze would waver toward the house. 

About six o'clock an heavy fog rushed down the inlet, hid- 
ing the whole world save the near shore. It disappeared before 
long. 

Two or three gulls were busy, after that. 

It was all very ordinary, of course, but an enchantment, to 
me, for I had not seen the ocean for three years. That is a very 
long time. 

After a while every suggestion of vapor disappeared from the 
skies. Then the flashings danced. Then the glimmerings un- 
dulated. Then the sheens surged. Out amongst them went the 
fishermen in their rapping motor-dories, or the cottagers in 
their thumping launches bound for Bath. Out amongst them 



64 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

flapped the gulls and now and then bobbed the black head of a 
seal. The breezes, growing, brought in to me the odors I have 
always loved. 

About eight o'clock we left Westport at the gray, tumbling 
wharf of the long-abandoned, gray, tumbling tidemill the sym- 
bolic distinction of which, even at blending-distance, refused to 
blend its power with that of the surrounding gaudy cottages. 
Just then we were near the fish-weirs. Beyond, was the dim 
finality of endless waters — 

There was a gull's nest on one of the weirs. 

Who has seen a gull's nest? 

'Tis made of driftwood and seaweed. 

'Tis as large as a bushel basket. 

Whose hands have made this driftwood 

by sawing 

or chopping? 

What winds have made this driftwood 

by hurling dead trees to the waters 

or breaking up ships? 

What of the afterbirths of maiden ships is this driftwood? 

What eyes of dreaming beings have seen these pieces of drift- 
wood — 

these bits of seaweed drifting in masses which look like ser- 
pents, undulating? 

Whose fingers have reached over gunwales to grasp this sea- 
weed? 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 65 



VI 



I would have kissed you. Wasn't the night black? 
None could have seen us, for the only light 
was that which washed the heavens, from the town — 
that light but glistening black against which lay 
the curves and angles of near trees and roofs 
in silhouette, jet. I could not see even you. 
Am I not right? And, more than that, the air 
was nervous with whatever kisses mean. 

I would have kissed you. I have loved you long 
and covetously. 

Yet, what you think of me 
seems not the thought of kisses and I, too, 
enjoy a love of you that kisses kill. 
Perhaps you would enjoy what kisses mean. 
Perhaps desire, without the thought of death 
confronting it, is lurking in your heart. 
Yet I enjoy the love that kisses kill — 
and kisses never fail. Yes, standing there, 
I would have kissed you. 

But I did not dare. 



66 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



VII 

They played " In Zanzibar " and you could hear low hum- 
mings all over the electric. The violin had a ticklish porta- 
mento. The mandolins and guitar had the necessary kick. 
That was because the musicians were done with work, for the 
night, and wanted to play, really wanted to play. The hum- 
mings grew articulate and everyone came in on the last strain, 
as usual, harmonizing. 

Oldtimers will remember the song. 

It was back in the tinkling years. 

It was before the fall of Saratoga. 

Every night, when returning to Saratoga from the park, in 
the electrics, the string-orchestra from Newman's used to play. 
I can often hear it — you know how. I can often smell the deli- 
cate smoke-drifts from choice cigars. I often hear the sound 
of fascinating laughter. I see languid, lovely millinery and 
lovely or handsome countenances dreamy with the oblivious 
lusts of summer. 

Myra was more than lovely, that night. Myra possessed 
the attenuated, intelligent, colorful loveliness of the typical 
Jewess. It is enough to say that her eyes were the eyes of a 
Jew. She wore a large, drooping panama the band of which 
was a plaited scarf of flimsy, buff silk, the plaits ending at the 
buckle on the side of the hat and the loosened, fringed ends fall- 
ing around her shoulders or fluttering with the winds. 

After that, 
Myra sang. 



" Tonight, the wraith of one I loved 
out from the darkness came. 
I trembled with forgotten awe 
for the wraith, dear, was your name- 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 67 



perhaps it was forgotten love, 
but I trembled, just the same. 

Yet, in another moment, I 

from any spell was free, 

when I but knew that what is dead 

again can never be — 

when I remembered, dear, that you 

are dead — or dead to me." 



VIII 

There are no more songs in my garden ! 

This dear old garden used to be wild with song! 

Where are the songs of the grasshoppers? 

The grasshoppers used to cling to the " baby's breath " and sing 

from morning to night. 
The locusts used to crouch on the sun-dried gravel of the walk 

and rasp in the mid-day glare. 
The songs of crickets came from unknown places. 
There were the songs of robins 
and sparrows 
and swallows 
and the humming of bees in the honeysuckle which used to 

meet the rosebush over the door. 
All these were songs of joy. 
There were many sad songs, too, and those songs were mine. 

I sing no more, not even songs that are sad. 
But where are the songs of my garden? Where are the other 
singers? 



68 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



IX 

Who knows it is March? 

The terpsichorean air above the brown expanse of pasture-hills 
is laughing to scorn the distant patches of flashing snow 
and is dancing as free women, drunk, might dance to the 
sound of beaten dishpans 

and all is passion — 

oh, all is passion! 

The world is a passion ! 

Who is there in all the world, with a passion? 

Whose passion is free to dance? 

Whose passion dances above the things that are dead? 

Whose passion dances above the things that are living and 

dead? 
Whose passion is not confined to woman 
or man 
or coin 
or book? 
Who is there in all the world, with a passion? 



— the swirls of rain being blown from the tin roof, yonder, 

gray and hissing swirls of rain ; 

the scores of swallows circling, fluttering, swaying through the 

high, gray depths of rain, 
swooping up from behind the housetops 
into the wild, gray depths of rain — 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XI 

Fly away, away, away, if you must sing — 

away, away, you dear brown devil of a sparrow, 

for I am trying to think 

and sing about my thought — 

away, if you must sing. 

You do not have to think before you sing. 

Fly away, if you would sing, before I drive you away and end 

your song 
for I am jealous of your song. 

Fly away and sing above the dung of the streets 

and leave me alone to sing above the dung of the ages. 



XII 

— and the tears at dawn while the city was groaning with 

exhausted lust or goaded toil 
or at night while the blackened housetops appeared to huddle 

like caterpillars on a tree proscribed by them, and while 

the pavements rang with sleepless fear — 
and I in my room, and alone, writhing upon the floor and 

waiting for your letters — 



70 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XIII 

There were the draggled thousands of old summer. 

The beach and thoroughfares were season-sick with a scurvy of 
broken flasks 

and peelings of bananas 

and imbedded scraps of paper. 

The shops and bazars were ragged with a commercial hem- 
orrhage, wide. 

There were men who happened to be men 

and there were women who were baffled by being men. 

There were women who did as women do 

and there were women who would have done as men 

and they mingled 

and surged. 

There was paint on the faces of many men 

and women 

and on signs 

and dishes 

and toy-balloons 

and souvenirs. 

There were rumblings and hissings of moving or pausing trains 
with ringing of their warning-bells. 

There were greetings passive or silent or careless 

and partings passive or dumb or cruel — 

for the summer was old — 

and there were giggles 

and screams 

and sighs 

and moans 

and sneers 

and the utterings of the drunken 

and the cries of hawkers 

and the drone of the ballyho 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 71 

and the music of places where they dance and press the breasts 
and of places where they skate and press the palms 
and of places where they watch the movies and press the legs. 
They strolled or loitered around the bazars and searched for 

the lusts. 
They sat on the sands and faced the ocean — and looked. 
They lay on the sands and closed their eyes — and. listened 

while the ocean sounded 
and the trains rumbled 
and the free women giggled 
and the ballyho droned. 



XIV 

— the sapling birches, whispering, white, with shaking, flick- 
ering leaves; 

the clear, calm waters folding across the gray, flat rock which 
they barely cover, 

sounding lowly, infrequently — 

I wonder if she remembers, now, 

the nights we lay beneath the birches 

and watched the stars through the parting leaves? 



72 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XV 

My mother had long, white, tapering fingers when she was 

young. 
My mother, when she was young, had large, black eyes 
with long, curved lashes 
and high, arched eyebrows — 

those eyebrows which are passing away, with a passing race. 
My mother had small, white, even teeth. 
Her skin was white. 

She wore, on a time, an high straw hat with an ostrich plume. 
She wore an hoop 
and a black silk dress 
and a cashmere shawl from India. 
When she was young she was beautiful. 

My mother had an affair, when she was young, 

for she has a thimble of solid gold 

which was given to her 

by a fellow who fought 

in the Civil War, 

an handsome chap — 

a cousin, I think — 

and she keeps it hidden. 

Whoever gave it to her was killed at Richmond. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 73 



— my sad old mother 
hid in her chamber, 
silently weeping 
the last of her sorrows, 
the sorrow of absence, 
quivering, trembling — 
perhaps in the garden 
amongst the roses 
wandering, lingering, 
silently weeping, 
smelling of roses 
instead of my flesh — 
her poor cold fingers 
holding the roses — 



XVI 



74 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XVII 

I came back home. 

I passed through my dear old garden and looked for my cat 

and called his name, for he always trots to meet me. 

He did not come. 

The roses were faded and falling 

and the first few poppies were blooming. 

In the kitchen my mother was waiting 

with bloodshot eyes. 

Her lips were cold 

and she gave me one of her poor old kisses. 

I clasped her in my arms 

and pressed the cold flesh of her face to the flesh of my face. 

The cat began to roll, on the floor. 

I picked him up and kissed him 

and smelled of his thick, sweet fur. 

I entered the dark, sweet rooms. 

The rooms of my house are quiet, dark and sweet. 

The furniture is dark and some of it is old. 

There is a pitcher, wide-mouthed, blue-designed, long crackled, 

English, used by the Goulds who settled by the Kennebec 

two hundred years ago. 
There is an ancient Oriental shaving dish which was brought 

from China by one of the Goulds who commanded a ship. 
The dining-room table is made of black walnut and from it I 

ate when I was a child. 
Yet, whether furnished with things that are old or new, the 

rooms are dark and sweet. 
My mother, myself and my cat are happy there, but only when 

I am there. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 75 



XVIII 

— and this stubborn old thorn-bush which is long dead 
and which was growing here when I was a child with one stub- 
born passion 
which is not dead — 



XIX 

We sat by the lake and watched the funny grackles. 

They are always funny — 

posing on scraggy tops of pines or the weird, dead limbs of aged 
firs; 

alighting on the sides of leaning trunks and clinging, motion- 
less; 

running along the backs of the seats in the park; 

dropping down from the trees, with the sway of falling leaves; 

strutting along the rocks at the waters' edge; 

flitting around through the foliage and uttering their quaint 
burlesques; 

bobbing amongst the grasses and picking up popcorn dropped 
by the crowds; 

fluttering, sailing low, along the surface of the lake, 

seemingly imitating the swallows- — 

but they are always funny. 

We watched them, often laughing. 

That was yesterday, the day of gold 

and blue 

and green — 

and black, for there were the grackles. 



76 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

— the lake asleep, unmoving, gray, embossed by the lazy 

rain; 
the hills beyond, gray-green and gray, some hidden by the low, 

gray scuds; 
these, rather than the sound of the closing door of the taxicab 

that took him away — 

I came up here in the rain, little grackles, just to see you. 
One of my friends — not forgetting my sad old mother and 
my ever happy cat — went away this noon. I came because I 
wanted to laugh. I hate the closing of the doors of hacks or 
the lids of trunks, although I love the beating and rolling of 
muffled drums. 

I wish you knew how I love you. 
I wish you knew how I love my friend. 
I wish you knew how I love my mother. 

I wish you knew how I love my cat — ah, yes, little Buttons. 
Ha ! A fine lot you'd be if Butsey should ever prowl about these 
parts! He's a wonderful, castrated torn, big, beautiful past 
words, and a great hunter. When he catches a bird, I never 
take it away from him. Why should I? I don't eat live birds. 
Even if he should catch one of you, I would not interfere. 
Never mind. He will never come this way. It's up to you to 
keep out of his reach. He's a great comedian, too, by the way, 
He knows it. Your comedy is exquisite, and I am wondering 
if you know it. 

Which one of you sat on a dead, weird limb of that half-dead 

fir, at sunset, yesterday — 
the fir that stands in relief against the water, leaning? 
The sun, when far in the west, was of fiery gold, molten gold, 

and the clouds were of white heat, purple and blood 
and the waters were of opal 
and of blood 
and of yellow 
and of silver 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 77 

and of lavender 

and down the waters came a narrow shaft of molten gold, 

and you, whichever you were, sat black and motionless on that 

black, weird limb 
in relief against that molten shaft. 
My sad old mother has a lacquered box from the Orient, with 

just such a picture on the cover. 



XX 

— the awesome azure whose fumid limits make the nearer 

hundred summits most remote 
and smear the farther hundreds into dreams of sight — 



XXI 

— across the heights the June winds racing, unhindered; 

whistling through the ripened grasses, in whims, 

and around the rambling wall of rounded rocks, at will, 

and forever rumbling in my ears; 

rushing over the summit-fields 

and somewhere away 

and away 

and away 

into the fearful space of the valley 

and somewhere afar 

and afar 

and afar, 

perhaps to join the winds of other summits — 



78 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XXII 



— an ancient pine 
bracing my back 
and someone cuddling 
behind the trunk, 
away from the wind — 
the humming wind — 



XXIII 

She was an old free woman, forsaken. 

She walked along the highroad, humming, looking below upon 

the Sabbath-sleepy city which glimmered in the westward 

light of an afternoon of September 
and she saw that the world had collapsed 
and she looked upon the ruins of the world 
and they were yellow 
and white 
and brown 

and she turned from the highroad into a logging-road 
and began to wander 
and began to murmur 
and she murmured, in a kind of song, 
scattering white-plumed seeds as she wandered — 

" There is peace in the woods this afternoon, dear! 
There is peace in the woods this afternoon, my child! 
'Tis quieted! 
'Tis easier to die! 



Where are you now, dear? 
Where are you now, my child? 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 79 

Child, I am alone! 

Child, I am wandering — alone — alone — where the weeds 

and vines are broken down and entangled 
and tarnished! 
Child, I am weeping! 
Child, I am growing old! 
Oh, the dead weeds rasp 
and the dead vines rattle 
and I love you ! 
Child, I love you! 
Child, I am growing old! " 

The afternoon light was as mellow as the glimmer of candles 

arranged around the faces of the dead 
and the winds were as low of sound as the music which is played 

when we pass before corpses, and were spiced with the odors 

of death 
and she sank upon her knees 
and the dead weeds rasped 
and the dead vines rattled 
and she wept. 



80 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XXIV 

Last night I went, alone, and lingered in my old, wild garden 
where there were scarlet poppy- women, passionate, who scorned 

the moon's mock potency; 
where there were blue, closed cornflowers who waited for their 

chosen lord, in chastity; 
where there were columbines who made a cuckold of the sun — 

accepting dew- jewels from the moon; 
where there were many weeds — 

and the winds which came from the somewheres of the south 
stirred the odors of mint 
and of roses 
and of heliotrope 
and were hot 
and the moon was crossed by a smear of vapor — yellow and 

thin — 
and was as teasing as a nipple protruding through lace 
and the hoofs of horses clicked 
and the voices of riders murmured 
and the city groaned 

and the distance of the stars possessed an horror 
and I bowed my head. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 81 



XXV 

— with the midnight winds that sweep the huddling scuds 

above this city of tombs — 
in the rumbling rain that flashes and glitters in the lights of 

this city of tombs — 
among the cringing ghosts that hurry through the rain 
and fear it 
or loathe it 

and thrive in this city of tombs — 
wandering, remembering your kisses — 



XXVI 

— a form which used to be by a window, every night - 

the form of a woman 

who sat in darkness, 

motionless, always 

back from the frame — 

not every night, 

for sometimes standing in the doorway, 

the door half closed, 

but always in darkness — 



XXVII 

— the light of the wild spring sun now sprawling upon the 
breasts of the earth, 

sometimes to press and embrace in the fearful passion of inter- 
course, 

sometimes to touch and withdraw — 



82 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XXVIII 

We were swimming by moonlight. 

The moon was high. 

The water was warm. 

The water was still. 

At night, fresh water is too warm, for me, and has an odor which 

I cannot like. 
It is sinister, too, but I love it for that. Rocks, big and round, 
on the bottom, near the shore, gleam like the eyes of clumsy 
monsters. The depths are restful, vast in vagueness. You 
feel that you must explore them, but the monsters lurk by 
the shore and watch you. When you swim, it seems that 
you do not move, that the monsters are holding you back, 
but your body feels like one of the elements of which the 
water is but another, and you have no fear. 'Tis a com- 
munion. 'Tis an embrace of strangers. 

The lights in the windows of cottages were streaming down 
the lake, beside the stream of the moon. 

One of the bunch was floating and looked like an ancient 
god or warrior in cameo. Two were amusing themselves by 
swimming between the legs of each other, under water, first 
one, then the other standing on bottom with legs spread apart, 
like those of the Colossus. Another was far out, doing the 
crawl, his ivory arms of classic muscle gleaming, occasionally 
flashing, amidst the gleaming and flashing eddies which they 
caused. One was diving from the wharf, a vision of darting, 
ivory lightning, disappearing in the cloud of dusky glass. 
We were noisy. 
For a while we had forgotten. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 83 



XXIX 

— and my mother used to sit by the road on Sunday mornings 

and listen for the sound of a distant bell 
which was lone and so sweet that it seemed descending even 

from the unclouded sun 
and, waiting, she gathered roadside roses just like these 
and arranged them on her hat 
and sang 
and sang 
and sang — 



XXX 

There is an hush. 

The summer people come, 
gibbering foolishly along the wharf. 
The steamer-whistle screeches and the boat 
pulls off, with all the sounds a steamer makes. 
The swimmers shout and laugh, at water-play. 
The naphtha-boats pass, rumbling, to and fro. 
The trains pass, roaring, on the farther shore — 
the autos, panting, on the heights, and yet, 
there is an hush. 

The hush is sinister. 
The winds move silently across the lake, 
with seeming care, as though respectfully, 
and cause no motion on the watery miles. 
Birches are motionless and pines are dumb. 
The grackles swoop without an utterance 
and rarely swoop. No other birds appear. 
None sing. The skies are fumid and the sun 
seems sullen at the silence of its spouse. 



84 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

The year is at the climax of her lusts. 
She holds her loveliest flowers in her arms. 
Her breasts are bulging for her suckling fruits. 
Yet she is silent. 

She has found her first 
gray hair and pauses, breathless, to behold. 



XXXI 

'Tis well enough that my face is hid in the grass ! 
'Tis well enough to hear the sounds of the winds and the voice 
of whom I love ! 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 85 



XXXII 



I feel as though I must make love to you. 

There is a certain daring in your eyes. 

There is a certain tremor in your voice. 

Your thoughts are those which promise life at large. 

Ah, but it is the August of my heart, 

and what we sow in August bears not much. 

Yesterday, I rode homeward, on the train. 
The August world is marvelous with flowers. 
Hundreds of ox-eye daisies are in bloom. 
Hundreds of crimson lilies flower, too, 
with hundreds of others which I cannot name, 
yet all begin their growing in the spring — 

and this for wildflowers. 

In my own sweet spring 
I set to grow the flower of my love, 
yet I was a poor sower, for I chose 
coarse clay, and, though with passion and great deeds 
I fertilized that clay, it was not fit 
to make a thing of beauty of my flower — 

and this for planted flowers. 

So, 'tis done. 
There is that certain daring in your eyes. 
There is that certain tremor in your voice. 
Your thoughts seem those of life at large, and yet, 
although I now know how to choose my soil, 
I dare not sow, for August is too late. 



86 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XXXIII 

— and the green so new 

and the ground so old 

and out of the ground upon which I stand 

coming the new green grass of the hills — 



XXXIV 

— the remembrance of that afternoon in that winter of horror 

when I kneeled by a window and pressed an hand 

and looked away across the snow-capped roofs at a distant spire 

the belfry of which was clogged and capped with snow 
and beyond which was a crimson sun 
and around which scores of swallows circled 
and circled 
and circled — 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 87 



XXXV 

He looked up. 

There were the stars, far, fantastic, limited in number, to 
the vision, by the housetops. Once in a while wreaths of smoke 
from his cigar obscured them. The confused illuminations from 
the streets and shops dimmed them. Before them was a ghost- 
dispassionate, almost imperceptible haze — a facecloth drawn 
across the eyes of dying summer. There were the stars, however. 
They pierced everything. Sometimes they seemed to him like 
the eyes of impassably respectable mill-agents' daughters with 
marmorean skins, who are driven past in elegant turnouts and 
who smile at space. Sometimes they appeared to bulge, as 
though whatever was supposed to retain them was not solid 
enough. Too, many fell, and for the same reason, it was prob- 
able, he thought. He shuddered. An unnerving sense of inse- 
curity flooded through him, throbbing. He looked away from 
the stars. At the end of the avenue, beyond the hundreds of 
electric lights and the thousands of beings with glittering eyes, 
was an unpenetrated darkness. It hid the sea. He strolled 
through the crowds of beings with glittering eyes and went into 
the unpenetrated darkness and crossed the sands of the sea 
which, even at hand, was obscured. He sat on the sands. He 
was startled. There were the stars again, and nothing limited 
their numbers. The darkness was penetrated, as before, when 
but a strip of sky was to be seen between the housetops. He 
shivered. He listened. He looked about, glancing. He looked 
up, staring. The facecloth seemed thinner than before, though 
it became more closely woven afar over the water-distances. It 
was all wonderful. He breathed long breaths. He peered. 
The waves made their noises and were not seen 
and the winds flourished the noises of the waves 
and came with the smells of the waves to the man 
and flourished them 



88 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

and he was quickened by the smells 

and would have arisen and have conquered an half of the earth 

yet he gasped 

and looked above 

and looked afar 

and looked about, 

for it seemed to him that he was being watched. 



XXXVI 

This morning, mine, while we walked in the shimmering pearls 

and purples of winter — 
pearl expanses, purple skies — 

do you remember the shimmering pearls and purples? — 
this morning, mine, mine own, I turned my face away from you 

and wept, once, twice, and more 

mine, mine own, I turned my head because I would not let 

you see my tears ! 

1 gazed away at the shimmering pearls and purples. 
Oh, pearl and purple is our love! 

At last our love is pearl and purple! 

Do you remember the charming little wood of beeches — 

gray beeches, straight and clean-appearing — 

beeches with leaves still clinging here and there, brown, curled, 

rattling? 
Some of the leaves of beeches cling all winter, till the new life 

comes 
with the new suns 
and the new winds 

and my love is like those leaves that cling all winter 
and I am clinging to you, O mine, mine own! 
O winds of winter, let me stay till spring? 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 89 



XXXVII 

I love the rain for its thousands of sounds 

and its liveliness in cutting the air 

and its way of striking the puddles it makes, splashing, send- 
ing up millions of little pearls — each in the midst of a 
flashing circle. 

I love it for its smell 

and its feeling on the flesh. 

Some nights I go out naked and sprawl in the grass, in the 
rain. 

I love the rain for it keeps from my sight 
the greater part of the human race. 



XXXVIII 

— when I went to school and wondered why they taught me 

numbers, 
since none could count the butterflies or flowers — 



90 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XXXIX 

That night we were both dizzy with bad whiskey. Our 
chop suey seemed an hour coming to us. I rested my head be- 
tween my fists, dazed, collapsing upon the table, and closed my 
eyes. 

I waited, humming a dear old song. 

I waited, hearing the sounds of the sliding slippers of the chinks 
who rushed 
and cackled. 

From the kitchen came the cacklings of voices 
and the hissings of grills 
and the rattlings of dishes. 

Around me sounded the gigglings of free women 
and the mumblings of them who brought them 
and the cursings of roughnecks 
and I heard and heard the sounds of the sliding slippers of the 

chinks. 

Once I raised my head, to look — 

for I was grouchy with hunger — 

and I filled a spoon with the dark brown soy, 

when he who was with me said — 

" Do you remember the times when we used to run in the fields 

where the daisies and strawberries grew — 
the times when we used to capture grasshoppers big and green 

and make them give us molasses? " 



XL 

— and once, these winds which come from unknown places 

brought me a seed of the tree which none can name 
and which has grown to an height that is greater than mine. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 91 



XLI 

To me, the heat was disgusting. 

It was only when I sucked the fumes of my cigarette into 
me that I was conscious of breathing, so I pulled each drag to 
the bottom of my lungs where it struck with an ecstatic thud. 
Nothing else seemed to be either passing into my lungs or out 
of them. 

It was depressingly hot. 

For an hour or more, that noon, I lolled in the shaded door 
of the barn, smoking, sweating, gasping, desperate with the 
general depression, relieved only by feeling the tobacco-smoke 
pass into and out of my lungs and I made a diversion of blowing 
whiffs at a caterpillar which clung to the tender leaves at the 
end of a long and low-hanging branch of woodbine. 

Then came the little old woman from across the alley. She 
was bent and wrinkled but quick of step and glance. The step 
was firm. The glance was sharp. She had once been a grand 
dame and had commanded servants and her perfumery had 
cost six dollars an ounce. On this day she wore a percale dress 
which was greasy and which was shielded in front by a greasier 
apron. Her perfumery was the sweat of a laboring body. While 
passing the garden she picked a green string-bean from the vines 
and began to chew it. She saw me. Uttering a little squeak of 
delight, she came and sat near me, on a pile of old boards. 

" Ain't this a hell of a day? " she mumbled, munching the 
bean. 

" Certainly is," I said, turning my head to blow the smoke 
away from her. 

She watched the smoke vanish. 

"Blow your cussed old smoke this way! " she commanded, 
mumbling, munching the bean. " You know very well how I 
like it. I haven't smoked since the time " — and the poppies 
caught her eye. 



92 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

So, after that, I blew the smoke her way 
and she munched the bean and said no more for a while 
but sniffed the smoke 
and trotted one foot 
and gazed at the poppies. 

Soon, I arose 

and gathered some poppies — 

nine scarlet poppies — 

and gave them to her 

and blew a whiff in her face 

and she laughed and went home to warm over some soup. 



XLII 

While you were talking to me, little fellow, and grunting be- 
tween your gulps of lemonade, 

I was thinking of a sunset of summer when I sat on a shore, by 
a luminous sea, 

and watched a steamship pass from sight, toward England. 



XLIII 

Last night I kissed your picture seven times 
and, with the last of the long, wet kisses, 
I pressed your likeness to my lips for many minutes, 
longing for death — for you are the slow poison 
which has now destroyed the best of me ! 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 93 



XLIV 

There are always two or three women behind the curtain, 

drinking. 
There is room for five or even six people, crowded. 
There must have been that many last night, for we were surely 

crowded. 

Eugenie was there. 
'Genie's a gipsy — 
a Russian gipsy — 
and old friend of mine. 

She is a beauty. Two years ago 

she was a wonder of the world — 

a skin of olive porcelain 

tinged with translucent, natural red 

faintly glowing; big, black eyes 

as mellow and wild as those of a mare 

and with lashes long and curved; 

white teeth such as one may see but in the showcase of a dentist. 

She had a peculiar manner of tilting her head forward and 
looking up, dreamily, under those long and curved lashes, when, 
with her countenance softened by low lights, I have more than 
once wanted to leap at her and bite her. Now, she is more or 
less worn, poor kid. Eugenie was never respectable. She was 
always a roughneck. She went at life early and furiously and 
probably will be in a frightful condition in two more years. 

Last night, in the middle of a gag I was telling, the curtain 
moved the least bit. We all looked up, expecting to be obliged 
to crowd more closely, when in walked a pregnant cat. 

Our surprise was vented in good nature, of course. 

We all laughed. 



94 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

" A toute outrance! " exclaimed an handsome, husky young 
Canadian, with a twinkling wink. 

" Naughty kitty! " giggled 'Genie, archly, bending over and 
snapping her fingers, beckoningly. 

We all laughed again. 

The mother-cat started toward the powdered, perfumed and 
partially fuddled girl. She didn't hesitate. She was confident. 
Neither female saw anything unusual in the other. They were 
both good fellows. As she went past, she waddled a bit, yet 
there was more charm to her hitching stride than her most 
mincing movements, during heat, could ever have possessed. 
We all patted her. We all wished her well. Then there was a 
dead silence. No hall of council ever knew a moment of greater 
suspense than that moment, in that dive. A queen in the same 
condition as that mother-cat must be a comparative slouch. 
The animal was proud in a pride that a queen is unable to feel. 
'Genie rubbed her belly. 
'Genie knew what to do. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XLV 

" Last night he noticed the round, yellow moon 

and its shimmer 

and the bars of budding limbs across that yellow moon. 

Last night he lingered, apart from me, for moments, looking 

upon the spires. 
Into the moon a spire ran — 
even as a dagger into a brain. 
He stood alone. 
He watched the spires. 

Last night I looked upon the round, yellow moon 

and its shimmer 

and the black and sharp-lined shadows 

out from which rose the bars of budding limbs. 

Last night came the first of the winds of spring. 

I smelled them, drawing breaths he could not measure. 

Last night I saw a policeman — a brute — a monster of beau- 
tiful countenance — 

who passed us. 

His shoulders were broad and his legs were big. 

He glanced at me and his eyes glittered — flashed — for he 
faced the moon. 

He passed and entered the sharp-lined shadows. 

The sounds of the city absorbed the sounds of his heels. 

Last night came the first of the winds of spring. 

Into the moon a spire ran — 
even as a dagger into a brain." 

That's what she told me, at least, 
while we were dancing around. 



96 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XLVI 

I want your body in my bed, tonight ! 

I want you beside me, covered with the clothes, 

when I may press your hot, sweet flesh 

and kiss it many times, embracing, gasping with your gasps! 

I want you beside me, kissing me ! 

Oh, let the bare trees rise, unmoving, in the cold March moon- 
light and throw their shadows which look like tattered lace 
upon the dirty remnants of snow 
and let the dog howl afar on the distant heights 
and let the mumbling drunks come home, crunching beneath 

their feet the ice that coats the puddles 
and let the moon shine on until it wanes 
and let the stars shine on until they are dimmed 
and let the morning come and glimmer through the old rose 

curtains — 
only let us kiss, before we sleep ! 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 97 



XLVII 

This afternoon the pied cat gamboled over the clean, green 

grass of the spring, 
bounding, blinded, into the sunlight — 
after a fly — 
after a bee — 
leaping, blinking, after the beams which strained through the 

blossoms and clean, green leaves of the plum-trees spreading 

above us both. 
The pied cat rolled and sprawled, at will, upon the clean, green 

grass of the spring. 
He listened. 
He glanced. 
He sniffed — and rolled and writhed in the light which was 

lambent upon his wind-waved fur. 
Down through the blossoms surged the winds — oh, they were 

treacherous, yes, and the ground was pungent with things 

which are new. 
From the pungent ground the angleworms crawled to splice in 

passion till morning 
and every blossom was luminous. 
Luminous were the clear, clean greens 
and twice — oh, twice illumed was the world! 



98 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



XLVIII 

It had been snowing all day. 

I dined at the home of a friend, that evening. Before being 
seated, I telephoned to mother, as she was alone, at home, and 
was used to having somebody with her, and needed somebody 
near, in fact. She said that everything was all right at the house 
and that she was feeling well, which put my mind at rest and 
left it with nothing to do but to enjoy the dinner and to do 
justice to the happening sentiments. 

" But — " she added, just as I was about to hang up the 
receiver — " Buttons is looking for you. He is sitting out by 
the hitching-post, in the storm, waiting, and looking up and 
down the street, You ought to see him rubbering through the 
snows. He has been wild since four o'clock." 

" Has he? " 

I laughed, though I didn't feel like laughing. I looked out 
into the dining-room. They were waiting for me. 

My little cat was waiting for me, too. 

He always waits, looking, about four o'clock. 

" Well, goodbye," I said, as softly as I could. 

' ' Goodbye . Come home early ? ' ' 

" I will." 

I hung up. A swirl of snow hissed past the house. The 
windows rattled, while a wind moaned and wailed through the 
blinds 

and another moaned and wailed in the chimney 
and a thousand moaned and wailed around the people in the 

streets 
and drowned their moans 
and wails 
and curses 
and laughter 
and hurled the snows against them. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 99 



XLIX 

— my little friend, my cat, approaching, returning homeward 
for something to eat, 

his white feet twinkling against the dark gray ashes of the 

alley, 
twinkling like stars — 

— at night, when I return, his white breast moving here and 
there in the murk of the cellar window 

as a star seems to move when one looks at it for a long, long 

time, 
one restless as he — 

— the nights when I come and call him from the cellar, when 
we eat together, sometimes even out of one plate, 

we, two beings — 



— when I sat alone in a second growth of grass 

while muttering winds were prophesying change, 

while there was light which seemed afraid to enter the clouds 

which were weaving together, slowly, toward the west — 
light which retreated and left upon those clouds a weary 

lavender 
which saddened them 
and saddened the city in the valley where I could see more 

buildings than I had been able to see, a month before, as the 

leaves of the trees in town were even then beginning to drop 
by twos 
and threes — 



100 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



LI 

— where I used to come to weep 
and fear 
and dream 
and shudder ! 

Above the door which has not been swung since others filed 

through, weeping, yet hangs the climbing rose-bush 
amongst whose rambling lower limbs I cowered 
(foliage, flowers, musk and moonlight!) 
touching the thorns — some green and even tender; 
amongst whose rambling lower limbs I lingered 
(limbs dismantled, barren moonlight !) 
touching the thorns all sear and even metallic; 
touching the thorns — for there were many thorns — 
yes, grasping the thorns! 

There are the towering apple-trees through whose high leaves 

I watched the happening planets, murmuring to each ■ — 
" Do they, too, count your flashes? " 

Here are the hollyhocks — gigantic hollyhocks — 
through which, in August, muttered horror-winds 
for which I listened even in June. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 101 



LII 

Every day is Sunday, with Madame. 

One Sunday, I awoke at dusk and went out. 

The faint glow behind the heights of Auburn was having its 
old struggle with the lights of the streets. 

I passed the tenement where Madame lives and turned into 
alley, for I was going to the bar-room by the back stairs. It 
was nearer. 

They were singing, upstairs at Madame's. 

Madame was singing, at the time. 

Madame has a contralto voice, not trained — just natural, 
as she is. As for me, I hate trained voices, anyhow. 
Once in a while she has a note 
which makes me think of a summer moon 
lolling upon an ebbing tide, 
or one of those roaming winds of spring 
which fans and fans that old desire 
to board a train bound for any old place, 

or the narcotic conception of having nothing to do till tomor- 
row. There are many others besides me who are affected the 
same way, for when I passed, that evening, there was a crowd 
of perhaps fifty standing around in groups beneath Madame's 
windows, listening, all men of course. On the next corner was 
a Salvation Army corps, pounding, raving and howling before 
another crowd, warning people of future days of inevitable 
anguish or assuring them of periods of conditional happiness to 
come. But Madame, faking a smart accompaniment on her 
piano, sang — 

" Hark! A voice from far away! 

' Listen and learn,' it seems to say! 
' All the tomorrows shall be as today ! 
All the tomorrows shall be as today ! ' 



102 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Madame had the biggest crowd. 

I went down the alley. There were sounds of useless argu- 
ments and squabbles and of desperate laughter — there was 
holiday laughter, which is always desperate — yes, and there 
was the sound of a voice from far away. 

Or rather, Madame's voice could still be heard. 



LIII 



— memories, shudders, a few dry tears, 

till your song was done and its low, last chord had eloped with 

a silent breeze 
out of the window 
into the night — 

this black, hot night with its crimson, crescent moon — 
Diana tired of virginity — 
then all we said 
and all we did 
in this black, hot night with its crimson, crescent moon — 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 103 



LIV 

The buildings were winter-bleached and wrenched. 
The streets were ragged and unclean. 

The sun smiled on, nevertheless. 

It was a new spring sun, which was smiling up there, all 
alone, in a pure, glimmering sapphire, a merry sun which offered 
to all mankind the dispensation of laughter and kissing and 
dancing and revelry and everything else that man loves and 
should have, if he desires. 

The sun smiled on and on. 

Few knew it, however. 

Nobody cared. 

Everybody had a sour look. 

Nobody's eyes twinkled. 

Those who knew me nodded and passed, breasting a raving 
wind, loathing the weather and apparently everything else and 
hurrying wherever they were going, with very wise and serious 
expressions. 

Suddenly an old-time lady of leisure approached. Her eyes 
were twinkling. It was surely a relief to meet even one whose 
eyes twinkled. The woman was swinging along through the 
raving wind which didn't annoy her in the least. She has 
passed forty, this one. Her cheeks, sunken a bit, are apt to be 
sallow save after her short trips to the salubrious climate of the 
Lablache desert. However, she is a stunner, even now. Her 
eyes are small and black, comprehensive, brilliant with inex- 
haustible revelry. They twinkle continually, full of the devil. 
They will never need bella donna. I have never known her 
personally but have noticed her, for years, around public places 
and have known all about her, of course. She knows who I 
am, of course, and probably all about me, and yesterday we 
spoke for the first time. We couldn't help speaking. 



104 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Her smile was that of any good fellow. 

Her voice was the sound of a solstring serenade. 

Wrapped in furs 

she swung away 

with a roaring gust 

which rattled signs 

and blew the hat of a bank clerk into the street. 

After we had passed, I laughed outright like a child, for I, 
too, am a child of the sun. 



LV 

What can be said? 

What can be said 

when the pericarps of the wayside rose 

turn crimson, with leaves at the forest-edge? 

when all of the leaves of the countryside 

are coarse and their greens are dulled by dust? 

when the seeds of the meadow-grasses are dried 

and are bowed and hiss with the nervous winds? 

when, at the last, comes the goldenrod — 

head-dress of Autumn's steed whose gaudy caparison is 
gemmed with the fruits of things and the last low-trailing 
fringes of which drag, frayed, in the old, gray mires 

of what is dead — 

when the shrunken river has broadened the marsh? 

when the water-snakes bask long in the sun? 

What can be said? 



Seaver-Howiand Press 

271 Franklin St. 

1S0ST0M 




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